Because this giveaway thing is supposed to be really super easy to do, I'm jumping in with both feet and donating two of my newest creations. Some lucky person will be the winner of a bracelet and earring set from Random Ninja Designs.

Ooh, shiny!

Awesome,
right? I mean, is there anyone who doesn't like free sparkly stuff? I
am a freebie whore, people. If it's free, I want it! I become positively
giddy when I see a package waiting for me on the porch and will knock
down any small person in my path to get to it.

(It's come to my attention that the Rafflecopter is not letting many of you comment for whatever reason. That's okay. It still registers your entry for the giveaway. Comment when you can. I won't be upset, I promise. Besides, you can always make it up to me by subscribing via email. It's over there on the left. Go there now. Shoo. Skedaddle.)

Are you back? You didn't read it, did you? But you should! It's interesting stuff! I mean, who knew that masturbation was GOOD for you? Both men and women reap health benefits from diddling their bits and baubles. It improves your circulation and releases tension and, hey, you can't get pregnant from it. Awesome, right?

This month-long celebration has generated some strange contests among the more enthusiastic supporters. Check out these "current" (2009-10) records:

The winner of "Longest Time Spent Masturbating/Male" (and also the
World Record Holder in this category) is Mr. Masanobu Sato, who in 2008
masturbated for 9 hours and 33 minutes. In 2009 he extended his record
to 9 hours and 58 minutes. Please note that time records indicate duration (length of time for which a participant masturbated). Damn.

The winner of "Longest Time Spent Masturbating/Female" was set in
2008 by Ms. Kitty Kat, who masturbated for 7 hours and 6 minutes.

The winner of "Most Orgasms/Male" was set by Big Rob in 2010—at 83 climaxes, a world record.

The winner of "Most Orgasms/Female" is Loooo-C, who orgasmed 83 times in 2010.

Makes you tired just reading about it, doesn't it?

Now some of these names don't look real to me, so I can't attest to the validity of the records. However, if anyone wants to take their best shot at beating these people at their own game, feel free to take matters into your own hands. Judging by those records, you might want to notify your employers before you begin.

Friday, May 18, 2012

It seems that
I was back in my high school days and there was an assembly in the auditorium,
which we all know is probably one of the worst places to be in the event of a
zombie attack. Everyone knows that when the zombie uprising occurs, you will
want to avoid large social gathering places to increase your chances of survival. True, I
wasn’t trapped in the mall, but this did not bode well.

When I became
aware of the looming presence of the brain-eating living dead, I realized I
needed a weapon, but where to find such a one that could handle this onslaught? The Props Closet! I knew there would be an array of swords and
sharp, pointy things left over from a recent production of Camelot, sitting ripe
for the picking. Only a Master Thespian,
such as I would have remembered they had perfect zombie protection at their
disposal.

I pushed
aside a canvas flat and found the box I sought. I chose my weapon quickly, but carefully, remembering
that when it comes to zombies, a machete is very handy, and ended up grabbing what
I felt was the closest thing.

Holed up in
the props closet, armed with Big Ol’ Dream Knife, I braced myself, channeled my
Inner Buffy, opened the door and in my strongest zombie-slaying voice shouted,

“Bring it on!!”

Onward they
came, these dream zombies made of random bits of my subconscious:

My best
friend? *slash* Gone.

The family
dog? *slice* Dead.

Alex P.
Keaton (where the hell did he come from)? *swoosh* Severed.

Some guy with
a head wound who may or may not have
actually been zombified? Sorry, dude. I
can’t risk it. *zing* Dead.

I’ve got to
give props to my weapon of choice. Big
Ol’ Dream Knife required very little upper arm strength from this particular
heroine to prove effective against hordes of zombies (I’m not the strongest
slayer on the block, you know). It was
amazing, slicing those nasty zombie heads clean off, like…well, like a light
saber (to borrow from George’s dream). Who
wouldn’t love a knife like that? Got a
chicken you need quartered? *slappity
choppity* Done! Cleaning fish? *bam* Off with their heads!

Sadly, I
learned that Big Ol’ Dream Knife had one fatal flaw. It was selective. Sure, it was able to cut through flesh and
bone (ew ew ew ew! *shudder*) but it had noticeable trouble with fabric. I was able to holster it in my belt loop and
it didn’t cut one thread.

Thursday, April 19, 2012

This picture was linked on my Facebook page by a friend of mine (thanks, Bart), so I don't know what terrifically warped person created it, but I'd like to know who would invest their money in such a thing. Okay, sure. I'm a little warped too, and if I had the money, I'd probably buy one, but I couldn't justify that as being a school purchase for one of my girls.

How do you market this as a functional backpack when it looks like it will eat anything you put inside? I suppose you could direct it toward a group of parents who miss their children terribly when they're at school and want nothing more than to have them attached at the hip forever. That might work. I think this bag would stunt their developing independence in the click of a pincers.

On the off-chance that the makers of this...whatever the hell it is need some help marketing it, I'm willing to help. Here's my pitch:

Do your kids actually LIKE to go to school? Are they annoyingly early for the bus, ready and waiting with teeth brushed and hair coiffed? Do they wake in a chipper mood, chomping at the bit to do a little learning and leave you behind to sort socks and pine for their return?

Your lonely days will be a thing of the past when you get them the WTF Backpack. Yes, the WTF Backpack will ensure that your precious little babies won't ever want to go to school again. This nightmare inducing school bag will have your children resisting their education with both heels dug into the ground and their mouths agape in a large O of terror.

Oh, holy hell!

"I can't do my homework."

"Why not?"

"Because it's in...my backpack."

The WTF Backpack. So realistic, it'll scare the absolute piss out of you.

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

For those of you who are teaching your kids the generic "girls have a vagina" lesson, you ARE teaching them that the proper term for the entire outer package is vulva and not vagina, right? I mean, you know that the words are not synonymous, don't you?

Just in case, let me give you a quick anatomy lesson.

Vagina and vulva are not the same thing. They are not interchangeable physiological terms.

The vagina is part of the inner workings, not the outer.

I asked this question on a social networking forum and got a variety of responses including this one:

"My child is too young to know the technical terms for her body parts." (Ignore the fact that the pet name we have created for her genitalia is four syllables long and she's already made up a song about it.)

And this one:"Vulva is just a gross word." (Vulva is not a gross word. "MOIST" is a gross word.) And also this one: "It all means the same thing."

(To say that it's all the same thing is as inaccurate as saying that your hand is a finger and your finger is a hand and that's just plain silly.)

It's true that all rectangles are parallelograms, but not all parallelograms are rectangles. Likewise, all vulvae contain vaginas (or rather, the vaginal opening), but all vaginas don't contain the vulvae.

Yes, there is a difference and the difference is huge. Vulva = clitoris, labia (2 sets) urethra, vaginal opening. Vagina = the canal that leads from the vaginal opening to the cervix.

Do you need another diagram? Okay, here:

So if you choose to shave your vulva, that's cool. Get creative. Have fun with it. However, if you choose to shave your vagina, it's not going to end well. Don't use the good towels.

Now, I know there will be someone who will get all worked up about this. Calm down. You can teach your kids whatever you want. Don't sweat it because some stranger on the internet told you that it's the wrong word. You're not breaking any law of child rearing. No member of the Vulva Brigade will show up and ticket you for referring to your lady bits as your bajingo and hand you some reading material about the inaccurately named Vagina Monologues. I'm not going to take away your euphemisms. Hell, euphemisms are fun! Tell them it's a Harvey Wallbanger or a FlufferNutter if you like.

I'm just saying that technically, it's incorrect.

To recap:

The vulva is the correct term for the outside parts as a collective whole.

Wednesday, April 11, 2012

I know that you're in a bigger hurry than I am and I can see you in my rear-view mirror as you drum your fingers on the steering wheel and gesture emphatically at me to go ahead and make my turn. I'd love to heed your request so you could stop waving your hands and making angry faces, but the light is red and I can read. In case you can't, let me help you out. That sign across from us says "No Turn On Red".

Saturday, March 17, 2012

I know I promised to get a better picture of the Penis De Milo, and although this one is more in focus, it seems that one of them was feeling shy today. Either that or he's peeing on the house while he's supposed to be in Time Out. Then again, maybe it's a Blair Witch Project kind of thing.

You make the call.

Someone was naughty.

I hope they're not some kind of perverted Chia Pet. (I'll keep you posted as to any other changes.)

Friday, March 16, 2012

I wanted to ask that very question of the people who own this house, but I was too afraid to knock on the door and ask, for fear of being thrown into a well in the basement and told to put the lotion on my skin.

Lucky for you, gentle reader, I wasn't too afraid to drive slowly by and have my ten-year-old take a picture, hoping that no one was home to see us gawking at The Three Pelvises stationed in front of their house. If anyone had come out to ask me, I would have told them "It's for my blog! People need to see this!"...as I drove away, cackling.

So you see, it was purely for your benefit that I snapped this picture; to expose you all to what I believe may be the new height of modern art. It's clearly a collection of an abbreviated form of Michelangelo's David.

Don't give me any bull about being able to see this kind of "art" at any clothing store in the mall. I can't even tell you the last time I saw a naked mannequin at the mall, excepting the time when I walked past a salesclerk wrestling the pants off a member of his display personnel. I felt like I had just interrupted the filming of a horrifically disturbing rape scene in which the victim had first been dismembered, when he looked guiltily up at me. One look seemed to say, "What happens at the mall before business hours, stays at the mall"... until it's written on my blog for all of you to read.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

I was browsing the kitchen stuffs on Ebay and ran across a listing for a set of multi-colored measuring spoons with a "buy it now" price of $1,043.46

What an exorbitant amount for a set of measuring spoons! Surely there must be something else about them that makes them so special, like they're, oh, I don't know...magical...or made of Plutonium or just the best damned spoons you'll ever buy.

I had to know.

So I asked the seller this question: "Do these measuring spoons contain Plutonium? Is that why they're listed for so much? I'd like Plutonium measuring spoons..."

I patiently await his response...

...and I'm kind of hoping they're Plutonium.

Update! I got a reply. It might be easier to just show you what was said, so I'll quote our correspondence here:

I was curious to see what the new asking price of these magical, wondrous spoons had been changed to, so I clicked on the link at the bottom of the email. $1034.51!! What the...?

I was not satisfied. So I emailed him again:

Dear GuyWhoSellsSpoons,

Wait. So now the buying price is $1,034.51?? I have to ask what the hell these spoons are really made of.

- RandomNinja

I haven't gotten a reply from this last yet, but when I checked the site ten minutes later it was $1031.53. I think these things really must be made of Plutonium and he's just not being straight with me.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I had intended to announce that four new fish were added to the ranks yesterday. The Man brought home two Balloon Mollies, a Mickey Mouse Platy and an Albino Bristle-nose Plecostomus.

As of ten o'clock last night, three of the newbies were happily sharing the tankspace with the others, but the Pleco was nowhere to be seen.

This morning, I discovered the albino didn't make it. The Man doesn't seem to think the casualties should be recorded unless they make it one full day, but I am far too serious about this Death Toll-keeper job to get caught up on technicalities.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Sometimes my life is steeped in the ridiculous. (What fun would this blog be if it wasn't?)Last week's blissful existence was derailed by a little slip that prompted this late night mobile status update on Facebook: "Sonofamotherbutthumper, one of my hearing aids fell down the cold air return vent. And it wasn't even the one that whistles incessantly. Furking FURK!"

Oh, the drama, right? Well, I knew it was NOT going to be found that night, so I went to bed and tried to dream of happier things...happier things that cost less money to replace than a $2000 hearing aid. That was difficult.

The next morning, the search began.

I tried to look for it myself, in the logical place, which was the cold air return vent directly below my room. I know that gravity makes stuff basically fall straight down and not up. I'm a genius like that. Of course, I had zero luck finding it, so The Man called the furnace maintenance company who sent over a lovely gentleman with ill-fitting pants to rescue my hearing aid from...wherever stuff goes when it falls down that vent.

I've mentioned before that people don't believe me when I tell them I'm very hard of hearing. This time proved to be no different as he lay on the floor with his ass-crack in the air and spoke into the vent, looking for my missing hearing aid. So as not to hover over the man while he worked (I didn't really need to watch his butt get any more air), I excused myself and went back to my business on the computer. He came in periodically to ask me stuff and managed to startle me every time. It was as if he forgot that what he was looking for was a hearing aid and that it was MINE.

Um...that thing you're trying so hard to find? Yeah, I kind of need it to hear you, dude.

It took three hours of search and rescue attempts with lots of banging around and cutting holes in things to locate it, but he did eventually find that mysterious place where lost things go in our house and retrieved my precious battery-operated listening device. It didn't even cost me $400 to get my hearing aid back. It cost $381.99.

But just look at all the other stuff he rescued as well! He found...*takes deep breath*...

JACKPOT!

One silver needle, a broken rosary, purple Mardi Gras beads, a plastic princess lipstick, one beaded bracelet, a plastic french fry, six Barbie shoes, one Barbie bathing suit, one Barbie nightshirt, four barrettes, one hair tie, three screws, one nut, three marbles, a Baby Annabel pacifier clip, a purple, plastic boat propeller, a silver pompon, one AA battery, an orange crayon, ten pieces of Barbie dog kibble, four checkers, one yellow Lego (which is actually from the previous owners of the house, meaning that it's been in there for probably twenty years or longer), ten plastic beads, one key-chain, a Mommy's Little Patient "magic" baby spoon, a button, miscellaneous My Little Pony accessories, Green M&M on a skateboard, one Phonak Amio hearing aid and twelve cents.

*exhales*

Sadly, I'm left to wonder what's disappeared down the other vents in our house. I'm not curious enough to pay the Buttcrack Hero nearly $400 to find out.

Now that that's over and done with, I'm happy to say I can get back to the things that matter. Those pigs don't fling irate fowl at themselves, you know.

Monday, March 12, 2012

CeCe the Sunrise Platy was found dead at the bottom of the volcano. The Aquatic Forensics Department is baffled as to what made her throw herself in and tankmates remain tight-lipped about the incident, denying allegations that she was part of a ritual sacrifice.

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

We agreed to take care of Lily's former class pet over spring break as a favor to her old 4th grade teacher. She's a guinea pig and a lovely house guest, despite being a bit of a squeaky wheel. We'll make her comfortable here, and shower her with love and affection...provided that she follows the rules of the house.

Saturday, February 18, 2012

And so it begins.Two weeks ago I told you we were getting fish. This week three teeny, tiny, little non-fish called Zebra Danios were added to the water. The Man said he'd start with a few inexpensive fish to "get the tank established", so he brought home Larry, Darryl and Darryl. It seems that of the three, Larry is the only one with the teeny, tiny fish guts to break from his cohorts and brave the doorways of Castle Rohan. Darryl and Darryl, more chicken than fish, are inseparable. They follow each other around like they've got magnets inside them. I know, I know. They're schooling fish. That's what they're supposed to do. Still...

I really thought we'd lose Darryl first. I figured that one of them would wander too far from the other and die from separation anxiety. I was wrong. All three are still swimming.

Today, The Man brought home five Neon Tetras and a snail. We have yet to see the snail put anything outside of its shell, so I cannot confirm that it is actually alive, but the Tetras are...with one exception.

After his initial release into the tank, Randy Jackson became disoriented and listless as he caught himself in the filter's output current over and over again. The Man knew the end was near, and he took the net out and scooped Randy from the water. As he flushed him away, he offered these parting words:

Thursday, February 9, 2012

Yesterday I won the lottery! Okay, I didn't really, but it sure seemed like it. I brought in the mail and discovered that my friends at Amsterdam Printing had sent me a new pen. I have a thing for pens anyway, but I have a serious thing for THEIR pens. (I'd like to think it's become more of a relationship than just a thing now, but until I get that official Facebook notice I'll remain in Crazy Stalker Mode.)

My pulse quickened when I saw their name on the shrink-wrapped envelope and felt by its weight that there was more inside than just a friendly little hello-please-buy-our-stuff-oh-and-here's-a-catalog thing.

I opened it like a kid looking for the prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, and I mean the old school Cracker Jacks, not the new ones with a 2"x2" paper booklet that you have to be superbly skilled in the art of Origami to use.

Stupid shrink wrap. Can't. Open. Fast enough! *squee* "There IS a pen in there! Ooh, which one is it?!"

Now, the folks at Amsterdam know that I love their Manor Pen. I got a sample of one once and somehow managed to break the dang-blasted thing in half. I wrote them about this and, being the awesome people they are, they sent me a few new ones to replace the one I had apparently used so hard and so much in my fevered list-making frenzy that it cracked under the pressure.

This new pen they sent was called the Entice Pen. It's even been engraved with my first name (and my zip code for some reason). Hm, what? Why yes, I DO have a picture:

Second from the left in "graphite" - smokin' hawt stylus!

I. Love. It. I'm totally cheating on my Manor Pen with this one, but...well...it's got my NAME on it, you know? That's got to make it okay.

I wonder if I could get the peeps at Amsterdam to tattoo Random Ninja on something...

Call me "Ishmael".

These are the absolutely true stories of Erika - wife, mother of three, and word ninja. When not writing wrongs or battling her nemesis, Dishes Galore, she enjoys poking people with sharp sticks until they make little squeaky sounds. *poke*